Ace o' Clubs and Old Gray-Eye
by adkal
Summary: The Ace o' Clubs is a popular hangout for the 'lower' citizens of Metropolis. This is a series of short tales involving one of its regulars. (Note: I've updated the rating to M in light of the recent chapter and some of the upcoming chapters)
1. Chapter 1

He is called various things by various people - 'Gray-Eye', 'Cross', 'The Old Man' – but no one knows his real name. Truth be told, hardly anyone has ever spoken to him – Matches Mallone did once a few years ago, and seeing them laughing as they shared a joke unnerved a number of the patrons of the Ace of Clubs.

He's one of those 'unnoticed regulars' – there so often that when he's not there most just assume that he was. His corner is an odd one as, for some reason, it's the nicest smelling area of the joint, even though, from the look of him, The Old Man hasn't showered in weeks.

The Ace o' Clubs, itself, has a mixed standing in the neighbourhood. Renown as _the_ hangout for the various 'lowlife' of Metropolis, and the place to go to find that 'someone who will do the job you want doing', its rep suffered considerably when it was targeted by an Intergang 'clean-up' squad shortly after the place was bought by one Bibbo Bibbowski (a former contender for the boxing heavyweight title). Bibbo's affection and respect for Superman had made him a target, but this was quickly resolved when dozens of witnesses saw him punch Superman through a wall.

Shunned by those who are 'better', it is often 'infiltrated' by up-and-coming reporters, bloggers and wannabes, eager to make the most of the 'loose lips' a few drinks often encourages. The problem for the infiltrators, though, is that they're quickly sniffed out and ejected. There's only one reporter in recent years who has actually been welcomed, although there have been periods of tension: Clark Kent. After a number of his articles led to the revitalization of the area, and especially after he saved Larry's wife and daughter in a mob-hit gone wrong, most of the regulars welcome him readily but sometimes warily.

Old Gray-Eye, though, is an enigma for most. Known for his words of caution and his general wisdom, he's most famed for his ability to handle his drink. On a number of occasions, he's the one who has been called up to take on the challenges issued by visiting frat-boys and stag parties – his only 'condition' is that the challengers have enough money to cover a round for the whole bar if he wins and that that money be held by Bibbo. The tale of him out-drinking a twenty-member stag party, one by one, is legend.

He shuffles in at around six foot and is slightly stooped. His beard is thick but groomed – although one lady once claimed to have seen a ferret poking out of it – and his hair is shaggy and often clumped and tangled. His clothing is a mixture of military attire, and some folk are convinced he used to be a Green Beret or a SEAL as, on several occasions, he has cleared the room of 'aggravants' (as Bibbo calls them) without throwing a single punch or breaking any chairs.

He's called 'Gray-Eye' because his right eye is cloudy and 'blind'. He's called 'Cross' because his left eye has a nasty scar that looks like an 'x'.

The Ace o' Clubs is a loud place with loud voices, and underneath the din are the mutterings of plans, proposed escapades, and exchanges of information. Kidnappings, assassinations, leg-breakings and so on, are all discussed under the clamor of the latest ball games and heated arguments.

A few years ago there was a _very_ nasty incident over in Park Ridge: a 16-year-old pizza delivery boy had been murdered; his headless body, dumped in the river, was found by Superman by accident when some out of control robot knocked him there from Hobb's Bay. The missing person's report had only just been filed and Superman asked the police to hold off on informing the boy's parents until he was able to find the head.

Later it was discovered that the boy had gone to the wrong address, the apartment block he was supposed to go to was opposite the one he did go to. Inside the 'wrong' apartment block, Superman found 23 bodies, crudely 'preserved', in their apartments.

In the Ace o' Clubs that same day, and before news of the murder was released, a middle-aged man was drunk and muttering about 'the stupid kid' and how 'he shoulda known better'. As rough as the clientele of the Ace o' Clubs is there are some basic rules they abide by: women are to be respected, kids are to be treated well, and the elderly should never be considered a nuisance.

When the Old Man arrived the regulars could tell straight away that he was angry. He didn't shuffle in and was taller and bigger than usual. The scars on his left eye looked raw. To top it off, the Old Man didn't sit in his regular spot. He sat down right opposite the middle-aged man…and stared at him. For a while, the man kept himself from meeting the Old Man's eyes, but he broke down and looked. Old Gray-Eye said one word: 'Talk'.

The tale the patrons heard bristled them. Two of them had to throw up. As he made the admission to the murder of the delivery-boy, the man downed his drink, stood up, chuckled, shook his head and made to leave. Old Gray-Eye said another word:

'Where?'

Bibbo blocked the man's path, his fists clenched and his arms folded. His mouth twitched with rage, but it was nothing like the look of rage on old Gray-Eye's face. Most of those there couldn't look at him for fear that they, too, would reveal their darkest secrets and they would have that look directed at them.

The man turned to look at Gray-Eye and blanched – he later said that 'the old man's eyes were on fire' and 'he was looking at my soul and burning it'. 'Dumpster off Glenmorgan Square', he mumbled, falling to his knees.

Old Gray-Eye got up and walked out as Bibbo punched the man.

No one saw Old Gray-Eye solemnly rise into the air.


	2. Lois Lane

"…Lois Lane."

The old man looked up, one eye cloudy and blind and the other a bright blue but with distracting scars around it. There were deep wrinkles around his eyes and a string of liver spots just above his cheek bones. A white tuft of hair hung over his forehead covering a couple of scars that distorted his furrowed brow. The rest of his white hair was long and hung down to his shoulders. His mustache was trimmed and his beard thick and groomed – it had a few dark areas, too.

The collar of his shirt was greasy and lined with black, flecks of dead skin were caught in the creases of his muscled neck. His shoulders sagged a little; still strong but he had clearly been a much bigger guy when he was younger. His clothes hung loosely on him – it primarily comprised of old army attire, including a jacket with the badges worn off. The numerous holes in his clothing were often joked away as 'bullet holes' by those who knew him.

His hands were thick and strong, and his fingers moved quickly as he flicked the beer mat between them. Liver spots and scars marked the back of his hands and, occasionally, part of a thick scar could be seen on his left forearm.

There was a rancid and unwashed smell, but every once in a while the air around him smelled fresh and clean.

"Excuse me?" he asked, his voice deep and a little grating. His accent was difficult to place but it seemed to be from the West Coast.

The woman standing before him smiled. She was around 5'7 with dark, shoulder-length hair. She was wearing a Metropolis Sharks football jersey, jeans and flats, and had a dark messenger bag flung over her shoulder.

There was a sudden roar as the Sharks scored a touchdown. She stepped forward and said, "I said, 'Hi, my name's Lois. Lois Lane.'."

"And?" asked the old man gruffly.

"Well," she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. The old man raised an eye-brow quizzically. "I'm a reporter for the _Daily Planet_, and-"

"I know your work, Miss Lane."

"Really? That's great."

"This place isn't your kind of scene. Shouldn't you be out there tracking down gun-runners or something?"

"Ordinarily, sure, although this _is_ my kind of scene *mumbles* if only people didn't clam up when they see me."

"Ah, so the…clientele here has rejected you?" chuckled the old man.

Lois frowned a little before glancing over her shoulder.

"How can I help you, Miss Lane?"

She scooted her chair closer to the old man, ignoring the smell and slightly puzzled that it kept fading. The crowd in the Ace o' Clubs is generally loud and the game on the screens is making them louder.

"Here's the thing: gun-runners, traffickers, dodgy judges and senators – I've got a nose for that kind of thing. An instinct, one could say. A good reporter, though, has range and should be able to recognize and write well beyond her comfort zone."

"Infiltrating an underground slave ring was comfortable for you?"

"No. Necessary."

The old man nods. "Go on."

"I have a…colleague…he tends to write human interest pieces-"

"Tends to?"

"He's broken some pretty big stories but he seems to prefer the 'person on the street' stuff."

"And?"

Lois sighs and rests her hands on the table before slowly lifting them with a disgusted look on her face. As she digs out a tissue from her bag she says, "And, I figured I could, for a little while, take a stroll in his neck of the woods and maybe see things a little differently."

"This isn't the best place to be for that kind of thing, Miss Lane."

"Lois. Please."

"Lois. The folks that come here tend not to take too kindly to reporters. Even your colleague sometimes has issues here. In fact, I'm surprised you even made it across the room. Pretty gutsy to rely on the game distracting them long enough.

"Anyway, what can I do for you?"

"Tell me your story?"

The old man smiled. "I don't have a story to tell, Lois. I'm just an old man kicking up the papers with my worn out shoes. Dirt in my hair and my clothes in rags."

She leaned forward, "You have some pride in your eyes, though."

"Really?" he grinned and pointed at the cloudy blind eye, "even this one?"

The old man sat back and scanned the room, his gaze lingering at various tables. "There are a lot of stories here, Lois, but I don't think many of them are willing to be told to you. No, the kind of stories you're looking for, the ones outside your 'comfort zone', they're out there on the street corners, in the homeless shelters and derelict theatres. There's one _in_ your comfort zone here, and you already know where that is."

Lois looked over her shoulder again and then back at the old man. He nodded at her, noting the flash of anger in her eyes.

"He was released earlier today. Tense, flighty, agitated. Not ready for a confrontation with you, but quickly picking up the pieces in order to make up for lost time." She looked at him questioningly and he said, "Yesterday's papers tell yesterday's news, Lois, but they can provide insight into what's happening today and what could happen tomorrow, the day after or further down the line. Threads and connections – wouldn't you agree?"

She nodded quietly, her heart beating faster.

There was another huge roar from the crowd.

The old man leaned forward slightly. "Are you going to be okay getting home?"

Lois smiled. "I'll be fine. Thank you. There's still another half hour before the game wraps up, so I should probably head out now. Y'know, avoid the rush."

"You're sure?" he was looking at her hands. They were shaking a little. She nodded.

"I'm sure you'll find the stories you're looking for Lois. You've got a nose for them." He winked at her, sat back, and began to pass his eye over the crowd and tables again.

Lois stood up, slipped her bag on, and began to make her way out of the bar. A man at one of the tables watched her, the old man watched him. As the door closed behind her, the man left his table and followed. The old man continued watching while passing his eye over a couple of the other tables.

Outside Lois walked quickly, her phone to her ear as she called Perry.

"Lucas is out. I just saw him. Call Mason and make sure the girls are safe."

She hung up, pocketed her phone, and began to jog. Footfalls behind her began to pick up pace. Palming her can of mace, Lois stopped under a street light and turned around. The man who had followed her from the Ace o' Clubs, Lucas, slowed down and smiled.

"Lois, Lois, Lois. I don't think I've ever seen you so…covered up." He licked his lips and ran his hands through his hair. "I told you I'd be out before the ink would dry on your witness statement. You've cost me a lot of money, Lois Lane. A _lot_ of money." He began to put on a leather glove. "I'm betting you know where the girls are. Their new owners are quite anxious to be in possession of their purchases."

Lois shifted into a fighting stance and Lucas smiled again. He touched his swollen and cut lip and then began to put on the other glove.

"Your exposés showed us how lax we've been getting, so thank you for that. However, it also reassured a number of the higher-ups that they're safe. Hence –" as he bowed theatrically, cheers erupted from a couple of the nearby watering holes. "You're making me miss the game, Lois, but I'm not going to begrudge you that."

A cat darted out of a nearby alley, hissing and distracting Lucas. He yelped in pain as Lois hit the side of his head with the base of the can. She brought her foot down at his right knee, hard, twice. As he fell to the floor she sprayed him with the mace.

Blue lights flashed behind her, and the cat sat in the middle of the sidewalk watching. Lucas writhed on the floor, switching between holding his leg or clearing his eyes. He swore at her, repeatedly.

She wanted to kick him and keep kicking him. "The youngest was six…" she whispered.

Detective Mayson Palmer ran up, accompanied by a few officers. "Lois, I'm sorry. I didn't know he'd been released." As the officers read Lucas his rights, Lois took hold of Mayson's arm and pulled her away.

"He said there were higher-ups."

"There were bound to be."

"In this _city_, Mayson."

"The girls are safe. I promise. We'll break this thing down."

Lois nodded and glanced over at the alley the cat had ran out of. The old man waved as he turned and slipped back into the darkness. She took out her phone and called Perry again. "Lucas is being taken in…yes…a task force. Thanks Perry. I'll call Clark now."


	3. Abort'

**Author's Note:** when I first started writing this, as I plotted it out in my head, it was violent and bloody and terrifying. I think that was me lashing out in anger at what some people are doing in the world. This chapter, and a couple of the others in this series, took me a while to write; not because they were 'hard' but because there was a lot of rage I was struggling to temper. There still is, and it may be that in holding back some of the things I wanted to write, I've made the narrative cumbersome. For that, I apologise, but I hope you, the reader, is also able to appreciate that the 'story' is a difficult one and I tried not to create a 'cop out'.

* * *

'..dnt wry abt it huni the docll srt it out'

Cross frowned at the text message and gave more of his attention to the young man who had sent it, and his table of friends.

"Stupid cow got knocked up." moaned the young man as he pocketed his phone.

Shocked, one of the men exclaimed, "Dude, she's fourteen…I thought you-"

The young man waved his words away. "Old enough to bleed and all that, bro. There's a whole world of 'em out there that will give you want you want. You know that sayin', 'treat 'em mean, keep 'em keen'? Yeah…it's genius."

"My _sister_ is fourteen."

"Yeah, but she's your sister. Wasn't it her birthday a couple of months ago? Anyway, the guys and I, the ones you met last week…we've got a dozen or so available…if you're interested…."

"What?"

"Hundred bucks for 5 hours, and you can do whatever you want."

The shocked man got up to leave. "I don't even know you any more, Dan."

Dan raised his glass. "See you tomorrow, Jay. Give it a thought."

As Jay left, Dan turned to the others at the table and said, "His sister is fiiiine. I'm seeing her tomorrow. Know what I mean?"

At Cross' table, a crack slowly made its way down one of the table legs. Outside, Jay pulled out his phone, his hands shaking and his mouth dry. He made a call.

At Dan's table, a lanky, greasy-haired and bespectacled man leaned forward. "Dan…these…ah…these girls. How'd you-"

"Truancy, mainly, Al. Truancy and broken homes. Oh, and a children's homes. A couple from my previous batch were spoilt rich kids – they're good for cash flow – but truancy and children's homes are the main ones. Sometimes there's the oppressed religious rebel – they're open to some nasty stuff. What's your flavour?"

Al looked around, nervous.

"Don't worry about it, Al. Place like this, no one hears or pays attention to what you're saying. Prime spot to discuss certain kinds of business."

"You…uh…you got any Asians?"

Dan shook his head. "Gentlemen's agreement on that. Can source you one, no problem, but I mainly deal in Indian and European. Got a twelve year old you might be interested in."

"T-twelve?"

"She hasn't been used much but she's…easy going."

Al licked his lips nervously. Dan's phone vibrated, he took it out and then excused himself.

Once outside the Ace o' Clubs Dan answered the phone: "Hey, hun. Just bumped into Jay…no, no, he didn't mention you, sorry…sure, we're still on for tomorrow…there's something you want to tell me? Hey, why are you…shit…okay…no, we'll sort this out today. Meet me at the warehouse and I'll take you to the doc."

He walked back in, angry.

"Al, if you want in it's four hundred for the hour."

"Four?! But-"

"Fresh, Al. Take it or leave it."

"O-okay…"

"Good. C'mon, let's go. You two coming?" The other two men shook their heads. They were very uncomfortable, their palms were sweating and they didn't want to be in front of Dan any more. Dan shrugged, tugged on Al and walked out. Al then excused himself and followed.

At the other end of the bar Cross rose from his table and walked to the two remaining men. Behind him the table listed to one side. Bibbo noticed from behind the counter and frowned.

The men were nervously eyeing their drinks. They were thirsty but their nerves and disgust put them off drinking. Dirty hands clamped down on their shoulders and both yelped with pain. Cross slowly crouched down beside them.

"Carl and Mike. Good evening. That rush of anxiety, that rumble of fear and the churning of your stomachs as you listened to Dan and Al, those are good things. Embrace those feelings, and if I were you, I'd never speak to either of them ever again.

"I'd also never step foot in here again, either."

"W-wh-what are you-"

"_Don't_ try my patience, Carl. Walk away now and be grateful."

"Sir, yes sir."

Cross walked out of the bar. Bibbo frowned curiously at the two men as they quickly left, too, their shoulders tingling as feeling returned to them.

* * *

The warehouse had spent time as a nightclub a few years ago before health and safety stepped in and shut it down. These days, the industrial park it was set in was relatively unused. There was daily activity in certain parts but that was mainly kids playing around and the cars that often came in, well, they were ignored by most. Sometimes it was better not to pry.

The bass of loud music could be felt and heard long before the warehouse was in sight. Dan drove in through the gate and noted that Barry, Thomas and Phil's cars were in the lot. He cut the engine and sat in the car for a little while. He always felt a rush before walking in to the building. The excitement of the freedoms he was about to indulge in always made him giddy. The power he felt as the girls looked at him made him feel strong and important.

He got out and walked to the side door. The scents of candles, cakes, perfumes and alcohol washed over him, but it was that musky other smell that he savoured…that stirred him and made him smile. He saw Amy and Jane sitting at opposite ends of the dirty couch, saw a couple of girls lying in a stupor on the floor, and heard the squeals (they were screams) from the curtained areas up top.

Amy jumped up and ran to him. "Dan! Omigosh, Jay called and said he wanted to catch up with me and that he was sorry he missed my birthday party because of work and he wanted to see me tonight but I told him I was busy with school and-" she stopped talking when Dan put his finger to his lips. She closed her mouth and looked down.

"Good girl. Good girl," he whispered as he brushed back her hair.

One of the screaming voices quietened down into sobs, and a harsh voice could be heard cursing. Grunts, moans, screams and yelps continued to come from the other curtained areas. Dan liked this place, it provided certain comforts and access to pleasures. Discreet and out of the way…

He glanced at Jane staring at the floor; pulling Amy along behind him, he walked to the sofa and stood in front of her.

"What happened?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "I took a couple of tests and-"

"Who?"

"I don't-"

"You should." He whispered, with a snarl. She looked up at him, confused. How was she supposed to know whose it was when almost none of her 'clients' wore protection? Dan knew this, he _encouraged_ her to accommodate what his friends wanted…he told her that it made him love her more…

He shoved Amy on to the sofa.

"And you? I know it's not mine, so whose?"

Jane turned to look at Amy, shocked. Amy curled up on the sofa, whimpering almost inaudibly. Dan unclasped his belt.

There was a bang on the door.

"Dan! I know you're here, your car's parked outside!"

Dan cursed, Amy gasped and Jane looked at the two of them, confused. Above, there were a couple of yelps and cursing.

The handle to the door rattled and there were more bangs on the door. Barry looked down over the railing, pulling his shirt on. Dan waved him back. "I'll sort this out." He pointed the girls to the back the back of the room and began walking to the door as they hurried to hide.

Dan opened the door to a scared and angry Jay, who tried to push his way in. Dan shoved him back, stepped outside, and closed the door behind him.

"Where's Amy?"

"Excuse me? Dude, c'mon. Why would I know where your sister is?"

"She answered my call from here," Jay snarled, noticing the open belt. "Where is she?"

The sound of tyres screeching and metal crunching filled the air, and Jay and Dan saw Al's car scraping along the ground, on its side, coming to a halt behind the parked cars. Taking advantage of the distraction, Jay dashed to the door and rushed into the warehouse, shouting out Amy's name.

Cross shuffled towards Dan as Al tried to pull himself out of his car. "Old man…came…out…of nowhere…"

Jay spotted a little girl looking down at him, wide-eyed. She was naked and bleeding. He saw Phil walking away from her, twirling a baseball bat in one hand and holding a gun in the other. Barry walked down the steps, tutting. Thomas could be heard cursing in annoyance, his words punctuated by short screams of pain.

"You're Dan's mate, aren't ya? Jay, isn't it?" asked Barry as he stretched a little.

Jay turned his gaze away from the girl, his teeth clenched in anger and his hands shaking. As Dan stepped down from the metal staircase he leaned to his left and took hold of baseball bat secreted against the metal post.

"Where's my sister?" he growled as he scanned the room for a weapon. Barry shrugged and swung the bat a couple of times, warming up. Dan suddenly slammed the door shut and locked it. Barry paused mid-swing and nodded his head at Dan, inquisitively.

"Just some drunk hobo. Jay, I think you should leave."

"Not without Amy."

"Dude, she's not here. Hand on heart, if I see her I'll bring her to your parents' place."

Huddled in a corner, Amy and Jane held each other and watched. Amy was torn – her brother had come for her even though Dan had told her Jay didn't care about her. He had found her. Jane was fascinated – having been shunted from one home to another, seeing someone come for a loved one, in real life, was breathtaking.

"Her bag is right there," growled Jay, pointing towards the sofa. Amy gasped.

"$#!t"

There was a scream as Thomas suddenly flew through a curtained area and landed roughly in a hammock near the far wall. He was naked and seemed to have blood on him. His breath catching with fear, he scrambled out of the hammock and stumbled on to the floor. Taking advantage of the confusion, Jay kicked him and rushed at Dan. Three shots fired out…

Amy and Jane screamed, running out of the corner they were hiding in. Barry dodged behind the metal staircase. Jay punched Dan after tackling him to the ground, and Phil looked at his gun, confused. He turned, accusingly, to the little girl who was with him on the walkway…only she was gone. He stormed into the curtained area he had been with her in, only find she was not there, either.

Barry grabbed Amy as she ran by, threw her at the wall and pinned her there, his hand squeezing against her throat. "JAY!" he shouted out. Jay looked up, fist cocked for another punch at Dan, and stopped. Dan shoved him off and, spitting blood, got up. In the quiet there was heavy breathing and whimpering and choking. Jane was cowering on the floor in fright; Amy was struggling to breathe; Thomas, his fingers swelling, was whimpering on the floor.

Barry let go of Amy and rushed at Jay, swinging the baseball bat. It shattered mid-swing and Barry staggered back, harsh vibrations running up his arms and making his body tingle. Wide-eyed, Amy, Jane, Dan and Phil stared at Jay. Swearing, Phil shot at Jay again…and nothing happened. Suddenly, the walkway Phil was standing on heaved and tossed him on to the empty sofa.

Amy and Jane had vanished.

There was a bang on the door and Barry stepped back, shocked. The door was bent. Another bang, another indent. There was a long creaking noise as something pushed on the door, straining the hinges until they snapped.

The door fell with a clang, the noise reverberating and the four men watched as a bearded and disheveled man stepped through the opening, dragging the unconscious body of Al with him.

"The police are on their way, and you're all going away for a long time," said the man, his voice like ice and barely above a whisper. "Jay, your sister and the other girls are safe. Let's go."

Jay looked long and hard at Dan before nodding and turning away. Phil grabbed a gun from under the sofa and Barry grabbed one secreted on the by the other metal post of the staircase. The old man clapped and the building shook violently.

* * *

"She's going to be okay."

"Is she?" Jay and the old man sat to one side as the EMTs tended to the girls and the police took care of the men and the warehouse.

"There's hope," said the old man quietly.

"I let her down. There were signs and I ignored them, and-"

"You're here now. You came when she needed you."

"I came too late."

"Some could accuse you of that. Others, though, would argue you arrived just in time. Hard as it is to accept, it's…relative."

"She called me her 'Superman'."

Cross smiled. "You are."

"What about the other girls?"

Cross looked up at the sky. "They're orphans and abandoned. They live at a children's home a few miles from here."

"There are more, aren't there? Like Amy and the others?"

The old man nodded quietly.

"My parents are going to hold me responsible for this. Dan was my best friend and I should have protected her. Should have checked up on her even after starting up on my own.

"I wanted to kill him," whispered Jay. "I still do."

"I know."

"Superman?"

"Hmm?"

Jay smiled as Cross looked away. "I know you can't be everywhere…but thank you…for being here."

"I should have done more. Should have been more aware. Every time I-"

"You're then when you need to be, right?"

Superman shook his head. He pointed at one of the ambulances. "That girl there? She's eight." Beside him, he could see and hear the rage rushing through Jay. The increased heart rate, the release of adrenalin and norepinephrine, the sound of the skin around his knuckles tearing on the microscopic level as his fist clenched.

"You're there when you need to be, Superman, sir. It's down to people like me to carry things forward."

Detective Mayson approached them, thanking Jay for making the call. "Tracking, hunting…there are international teams of people dedicated to fighting this kind of thing…." She sighed and looked at the girls sadly.

"- But there's only so much you can do, detective. But what about afterwards?"

"There are organizations that help," said Cross. "I have a friend that can put you in touch-"

"Please." Jay looked up at Mayson.

"She's asking for you. She wanted me to tell you…she's not…she's not pregnant. She told Dan that she was in order to get his attention."

Jay glanced at Cross, who nodded quietly.

He looked up again at Mayson. "Thank you." He stood up, turned to Cross and held out his hand. "And thank you. It scares me to think what could have happened if you hadn't been here."

Cross stood, took his hand, and shrugged. "Just doing what-" he went quiet as Jay hugged him and sobbed. "It's going to be okay, son." He whispered softly. "It's going to be okay."

* * *

Bibbo looked over at the empty table. He had fixed up the cracked leg earlier in the morning and regretted tossing it. Right now, he had an urge to smash things. He looked down at the front page of the morning's edition of the _Daily Planet_. He was sure that he had seen the men in the blurry picture in his bar on several occasions. Angrily, he began to read the article:

_Sometimes all it takes is one person to notice and make the call; for one man or woman to make a difference. Best friends since they were 8 years old…_


	4. Blue Eyes

Richie 'Blue' has always been 'popular'. He wore the 'right' kind of jacket, greeted the 'right' kind of people, and had learned the 'right' kind of things. Mikey 'Gray', his younger brother, however, was a 'disappointment'. Bookish, withdrawn…'boring' and unnoticed.

They both had plans, both wanted 'out' of the neighbourhood, and both were determined to succeed. Richie was an above average student and although he wanted to go to college he just wasn't sure if it was the right place for him. While he was good at various sports he didn't want to make a career from any of them; he did, however, enjoy being creative and had a curious imagination. Mikey excelled in academics and, although a good sportsman, he didn't like getting his hands dirty. He knew college was for him, he just wasn't yet sure whether to go in the direction of the sciences or to follow a different path.

After Bibbo had bought the Ace o' Clubs, one of the things he started work on was to expand the premises and have a family-friendly area. His drinking buddies scoffed at the idea but Bibbo…well, he loves family and the idea of having a place of his own that families would gladly go to was not something he would let anyone put him off from achieving.

And boy did he achieve it! Within weeks of opening, the Ace o' Clubs diner was a neighbourhood hit! Wholesome cross-ethnic food was offered and certain television networks soon sent a few of their presenters down in order to check out the diner's offerings. Viewers across Metropolis saw glee in their faces as they tried mouthfuls of shawarma, haloumi, matzo ball soup, tagine, fried fish, butter balls and bolas, haleem, phad thai. Bibbo wanted 'basic food without any fancy-shmancy stuff' but he wanted to be internationally inclusive as a way of reflecting his own views of life as well as the multicultural diversity of Metropolis and all-embracing approach of his 'favr'it'.

Richie and Mikey had been coming to the diner since they were in their early teens and could often be found enjoying root beer floats on a Saturday evening. At other times, Mikey could be found in the library and Richie having impromptu baseball sessions in the middle of the street. Like dozens of other kids, they laughed, played and lived.

They _had_ laughed and played…now, Mikey read and experimented and was almost invisible; and Richie played, his bright blue eyes now dulled. It wasn't just them, though. There was a general sadness in the neighbourhood…a year wasn't enough to dull the pain.

A year wasn't enough to bring the smiles back.

A year ago, Brainiac attacked. Superman had rallied together heroes from across the world, sovereign nations sent in their armed forces, and although the world (and the human race) was saved, tens of thousands of lives were lost. Trying to handle attacks on several thousand fronts, Superman wasn't in Metropolis when Brainiac unleashed a previously unknown weapon – a weapon that drew in the bio-energy of humans. Brainiac had decided to, for now, only draw on the energy of those aged between 30 and 45, and targeted the most densely populated area of Metropolis: Suicide Slum.

Silent death.

As the citizens fled in terror, as children clung on to the hands of their parents, or hid their faces in their protective embraces, hundreds fell to their knees…lifeless.

As children fell to the ground, dozens were crushed in the stampede.

As the streets of the Slum ran red, the buildings remained intact. The weapon was designed to only draw on _human _bio-energy.

Superman eventually arrived and placed his invulnerable body in front of the invisible beam.

And screamed.

Windows shattered, ear drums perforated, and roads cracked as the red and blue figure in the sky turned white. According to the news reports, it was half an hour before the white figure turned black and fell from the sky.

As he fell, hundreds of those who had been affected by the beam – _killed_ by the beam – awoke. Somehow, Superman had guided an elite team through the orbiting weapon and had shown them how to reverse the effect of the beam…all while shielding the Slum with his body.

Some, however, remained dead. Among them were Richie and Mikey's parents. Among the other dead was their little sister.

* * *

"His eyes are bluer than Superman's, man." whispered a roughly dressed man. His jeans and shirt were torn, the soles of his boots almost worn through, and he looked like he hadn't shaved in weeks. "That's why we call 'im 'Blue Eyes', see? Anyway, you seen that show with that chemistry teacher? Yeah? Well, it's like that only there's no teacher – at least none that we knows of. And the productssss are awesome."

His hands shook as he raised them to his brow. He widened his fingers slightly and showed the others at the table two small packets, one containing a fine powder and the other a pill. He reached out to stroke the leg of one of the women at the table, and she flinched. He turned his hand slightly to show her a small packet. His chapped lips cracked a little as a smiled and licked his lips. "Just a sample for you babe. Don't worry." His voice was a whisper and the others at the table strained to hear him above the noise in the bar. "Try it out and let me know if you want more."

The old man at a nearby table frowned at the yellowed teeth and bleeding gums. He closed his eyes and took a breath through his nose. He paused, opened his eyes, and watched the roughly dressed man with increased curiosity.

"How long have you been using?" asked the woman.

"About two months. Was hooked almost-"

"No thanks."

"No?"

"No. I'm just looking for fun, not…" she looked him up and down. "Not this. Sorry." She sat back and crossed her arms.

The roughly dressed man rasped a little as he laughed. "I've looked like this for years. _This_ stuff…this stuff takes away the horror and…it takes away the horror…"

Everyone at the table looked down sadly.

"I don't want to forget my sister," whispered the woman. "Not for an instant. I'm sorry. I thought-"

He waved dismissively. "It's okay. I understand." He pocketed the little packets and stood up to leave. "You know how to reach me."

* * *

The old man shuffled along the street. Five blocks ahead was the roughly dressed man from the bar. The man paused for a few seconds near an ATM before crossing the street and heading down in to the subway. He opened a maintenance door and made his way to a makeshift sleeping area. A few seconds later, the old man was looking in to the wall by the ATM machine. In a niche were sachets of fine powders of a range of colours, and pills that looked like children's sweets.

The old man continued walking up the road. On his left a woman sat on some steps, reading a copy of _The Daily Planet_. "Oh, Clark Kent, how are you able to see what so many can't?" The old man glanced at her as she wiped away a tear. The article she was reading was Clark Kent's exposé on the dispossessed of Metropolis, their emptied shallow graves and the recent revelation that a pharmaceutical company was using the bodies for drug testing.

The old man looked down and carried on walking, kicking up papers with his worn out shoes.

* * *

In a small room overlooking the street a woman lay curled up, crying silent tears. Today is her birthday. She's now 30. The other side of the bed is empty and by the far wall is an empty cot. The room was supposed to be a nursery but now it's where she spends almost every minute of every day.

An elderly looking couple stand in the doorway; although only in their 50s this past year has aged them dramatically.

"Sue? Honey, your parents will be here soon. Maybe you should freshen up?"

Sue nodded quietly and the older woman walked up to the bed and stroked her hair. The man looked at the empty cot and choked back tears. Excusing himself, he turned to go to the kitchen and caught himself looking at a picture of Sue and his son on their wedding day.

* * *

The roughly dressed man lying on the make-shift bed in a maintenance room in the subway station has a name – for the past year he has been trying to forget it. Last year he had died. He was 32 and had been dead for almost an hour. Ordinarily, that would be a medical miracle, but the manner of his death had not been normal and neither was the manner of his resurrection. For the first few months, after S.T.A.R Labs and LexCorp R&D had given him and hundreds of others the 'all clear' a week or so after their deaths, things had been 'normal'. For the past three months, however, at the start of every hour he had been reliving the deaths of every person who had died as a result of the beam.

Every single one.

When he had been introduced to Blue Eyes he had been at the end of his tether. Jobless, broken, exhausted and alone, he had been so close to drawing the final curtain. Blue Eyes gave him he means of having things normal, even if it was only for four hours at a time.

Now it was only for two hours at a time.

* * *

Cassie couldn't cry any more. Instead, she sat in front of seven screens and watched and listened to footage of her sister. She couldn't understand how her parents were so…accepting…of Tania's death. How they could smile at her memory. It wasn't right.

She couldn't understand how they could forgive Superman for not being there when Tania had needed him.

* * *

Richie frowned as he looked at himself in the mirror. His eyes were bloodshot and made the blue irises even more vibrant. He hadn't shaved for a month and his beard was patchy. He stretched and breathed out heavily.

"I miss you," he whispered.

He quickly washed himself and headed in to his 'work room'. Since his parents and sister passed away, he and Mikey and grown apart and the now 'too big' house had become divided without it ever being intended to be. There was no strict division, but both of them had come to avoid certain rooms, with the kitchen being the only 'shared' room but, even then, they used it separately.

The 'work room' walls were covered with photographs and newspaper clippings. In the middle was a large object covered with cloth. To one side was a desk with a laptop.

* * *

Malcolm Wright had been a promising wrestler, until the day of Brainiac's attack. He had been out in the streets with his father, helping people get to the shelters and to safety, when the invisible attack happened. The emergency services were stretched thin and Eben Wright and several other dock workers were tackling a tenement fire and were trying to rescue several trapped people.

The last thing Mal remembers of that day was seeing a child fall from his father's arms as he fell from the ladder Mal had been holding.

* * *

Mikey was restless. He had gone over the calculations dozens of times, had posted partial workings online to various forums for feedback, and the conclusions were always the same: it wasn't possible.

He slumped to the floor and sobbed.

* * *

Richie walked in to the Ace o' Clubs, and Bibbo frowned. He knew the kid and knew he wasn't going to be serving him any alcohol. He leaned across the bar as Richie slid on to a stool. "Root beer float?" Richie smiled and nodded.

Another man walked in wearing a hood. He stopped when he spotted Richie and, blue eyes flashing, he hurried back out. A moment later, Cassie followed.

"Excuse me," she called, breathlessly. "Excuse me. Please. Wait."

The hooded man turned around, piercing blue eyes looked at her.

"I…I…"

"Two hundred."

"T-two?"

He shrugged and began to turn away.

"I only have fifty…"

The hooded man walked on. Suddenly exhausted, Cassie slumped against the wall and sobbed, wishing tears would flow.

* * *

The room she awoke in was a strange one. Cassie quickly sat up, moaned and held her head as a wave of nausea washed over her.

"Welcome back," said a young male voice. Cassie slowly lowered one hand, squinting through the headache, and saw a young man with piercing blue guys smiling at her. Startled, she shuffled back.

"Where am I?"

"In the Ace o' Clubs. The diner. Bibbo has a small crash pad set up for emergencies."

Cassie relaxed slightly at the familiar names and looked at the blue-eyed man curiously. "You're not him," she said softly. He raised an eyebrow, confused and enquiring. "The dealer."

The young man stood up sharply. "Dealer? Bibbo and I both figured you were clean. I've done enough volunteer work at the shelters to spot an addict or a user and you-"

"No, no, I've never…I just…"

"You're Cassie…Tania's sister…"

"You knew-?"

"No, no, I…I…was obsessed for a long time…with the…"

"Who did you lose?"

"My parents and little sister."

* * *

A hooded figure walked around Richie and Mikey's house. It made its way in to Mikey's 'area' and began rifling through the various shelves. As it searched it began to behave more frantically, whereas initially it was placing things back where it found them, now it was throwing things aside. Eventually, it gave up and left, ignoring the humming device hidden under a tarp.

* * *

The old man was back at his table, much earlier than usual, and tucking in to beef bourguignon…with ketchup (he called it 'beef burgundy', though). Around him were several small piles of newspaper and he was flitting through them as he ate. At the table next to him sat a fidgeting man with his hood on. Amanda, one of Bibbo's staff, had asked him to take the hood off but he ignored her. Bibbo let her know that he was watching him and she moved on to tend to some of the other tables.

The roughly-dressed man entered, looked around for a few moments and made his way to the hooded man's table. He sat down opposite him, his limbs shaking as he took deep breaths to compose himself.

"Blue…please, man, is there any way of making the dose stronger?"

"I'm working on it," said Blue in an odd-sounding voice. "Do you have any new clients?"

"Potentially."

"And you've told them about me?"

"Only about your eyes, like you asked me to."

* * *

Sue's father-in-law, Jeremy, had been hearing rumours about something called 'the Soother'. He first heard (or 'overheard', rather) about it while waiting for the Metro – a couple of med students standing in line ahead of him mentioned it in relation to an old people's home they were doing a placement at. He didn't think much of it at the time, a medicine to calm old people wasn't much to write home about. It was when one of his investment banker colleagues mentioned it that it grabbed his attention. Triplets and work commitments had resulted in a lot of stress for his colleague and his colleague's wife, and they had been 'recommended' 'the Soother' by their au pair, who had, in turn, heard about it at the local playground.

Jeremy did some digging and eventually found that 'the Blue-Eyed Man' and 'Skinny Steve' were the two key starting points, and both were in Suicide Slum. He had no idea why they would call someone 'the Blue-Eyed Man', it wasn't as if having blue eyes was something strange or unique – Sue had blue eyes. Regardless, his investigations led back to the area around the Ace o' Clubs and that was where he was going to start.

'Skinny Steve' had been easy to spot and, after following him in to the bar, he looked around for the part of the equation. The hooded figure fit the bill, generally speaking, but the old man with one gray eye and one sharp blue…

Jeremy walked over, nervous, and felt his heart beat faster as the old man looked up as he approached. The old man snorted and turned back to his newspaper. For a moment, Jeremy was taken aback by the old man's indifference. His legs shook slightly as his nerves began to settle, and he realized the hooded man was looking at him…and saw the blue eyes…

"Tell me your story," said the old man, softly.

* * *

Heartache…there's nothing like it. The tug on your soul when you've lost a loved one, that split second of hope when you wake up…that it might all be a dream…it comes crashing down and you sink deeper into the awareness that it's true.

People deal with it in different ways. Richie tried to bury his by helping others and by working on his project; Mikey hid away in his work…discovering, enhancing and learning; Sue tried to dull it with sleep and apathy; and Cassie let it all flow out of her until she could cry no more.

* * *

"'Skinny Steve' said his supplier was a guy 'with eyes bluer than Superman's', and that's you, Richie. I've never seen eyes that blue."

"I'm not a dealer. No way, no how. Heck, if it wasn't for my brother's help I'd have probably flunked chemistry."

"Then? I saw the blue eyes. Eyes like yours."

"Contacts, maybe?"

"But why?"

* * *

"…I just want to help her. She's a living ghost now, and I thought that-"

"I know it's hard, but there's no quick fix for something like this. Right now she probably feels worse than ever, that if she had been a year older last year then she would have died alongside Tony. That she wouldn't be alone. That kind of realization could sink her even deeper, but it's something she needs to work through…with your help. You can't give up on her like this."

"I'm not giving up! I just…"

"I know."

* * *

The table suddenly flipped and hit the Blue-Eyed Man, sending him sprawling into the table and chairs behind him. Steve snapped rigid and began to convulse. The old man was beside him before anyone else even thought to move. He held his hands over Steve protectively as he watched the convulsions pass.

The Blue-Eyed Man whimpered and covered his bloodied face. The hood had fallen back and Bibbo looked at him, frowning, slowly recognizing the under-aged 'patron'. He turned his attention back to Steve, unconscious and with relaxed and regular breathing.

"I'll carry him to the crib," said the Old Man to Bibbo. He nodded towards the Blue-Eyed Man, "you keep an eye on him."

* * *

Mikey stood in his 'lab', his mouth agape. The hidden machine continued to hum under the tarp but the various shelves and cabinets had been emptied. He turned slowly on the spot, scanning the wrecked room and trying to figure out what someone would want in there. One name came to mind but he questioned whether it could be him.

"Mal?"

* * *

The Old Man carried Steve in to the crib-room, grunting at Richie and Cassie as he entered. They stepped away from the bed in order to give the Old Man some room.

"Is he going to be okay?" they asked in hushed tones, almost in unison.

The Old Man nodded.

"Is there anything we can do?" asked Richie.

"Mikey."

"Mikey?" repeated Richie, confused. The Old Man didn't say anything as he loosened Steve's clothing. Richie felt his mouth go dry as fear gripped him. He swallowed, nodded, and left the room.

* * *

Bibbo leaned back against the counter, his huge arms crossed in front of his massive chest, distorting the S-shield on his blue t-shirt, watching the Blue-Eyed Man as he dabbed at his face with a washcloth.

"You should take yer nose off, boy," said Bibbo gruffly. "Take out yer eyes, too."

The Blue-Eyed Man looked him and tried to compose himself. There was a shuffling sound as the Old Man returned to the bar.

"You've got some explaining to do, Mal," said the Old Man as he pulled out a chair and sat down.

* * *

Mikey slumped into his chair, dazed. He had heard rumours of Richie dealing in drugs but had immediately dismissed them. As estranged as they had been this past year he _knew_ that there was no way his brother would ever do such a thing. Never.

A sob caught in his chest and he leaned forward, trying to breathe.

"My fault," he whispered. "All mine…"

* * *

Mal leaned his head back at looked up at the ceiling. He was still on the floor, his back against an overturned table, and he turned his head and looked towards the now locked door. The bar was empty, save for the three of them.

"My memory started coming back. The kid falling. My Dad falling. The others falling. Awake or asleep…I'd see them. Over and over and over again.

"I caught the kid instead of my Dad. Don't get me wrong, I would do that again in heartbeat, but…the kid died, anyway.

"I don't know how…I mean…it was…y'know…chaos, but…I tried…I tried to save him…"

He looked down at the floor and was quiet for a few moments.

"When I woke up in that street I couldn't move my legs. That was frightening but…but more so…all those broken bodies…the little girl bleeding into my hand…"

He shook as he sobbed. Bibbo and the Old Man remained silent as they allowed Mal time to compose himself. He took a deep breath and continued:

"A couple of months after the funeral I bumped into Mikey. A lot of us had dropped out of school. It wasn't like we were quitting or anything, we just…school just…didn't seem right. Too many empty seats…too many lost teachers…

"Superman came down a couple of times but there was a lot of division…a lot of people blamed him for not doing enough."

"And you?" interjected Bibbo.

"…I don't know."

"What about counseling or support groups?" asked the Old Man.

Mal shrugged. "There were a few. I think a couple are still running. They only help deal with small aspects. They can't understand the dreams. Mikey could, though. He found a way to suppress them."

"The drugs."

Mal nodded. "He made it for himself but he eventually let me try it."

"And then?"

"Then I got lost," he whispered. "Dad was gone…closed casket…didn't even get to hold him one last time…I was alone and angry and…and then I found others who were suffering and I convinced Mikey to make more and he did but but but then he stopped and said we needed to be self-reliant and I got angry and stole the rest and-"

"How does Richie play into this?"

"Access. People trusted him so-"

"So you pretended to be him?"

Mal nodded.

"And Steve?"

"He was suffering more than anyone I had come across. I just…wanted to help him."

"What about the dealing?"

"We…we realised it would be a good business opportunity, so-"

The Old Man stood up suddenly and Mal flinched. Even Bibbo was surprised at the abrupt movement. The Old Man turned towards the door, paused for a few moments and then slowly sat back down, holding up his hand to ask for silence.

Bibbo and Mal waited.

* * *

Richie's heart was breaking as he saw his brother curled up with grief. Quietly, he entered the room and knelt down next to him. Whispering his name he gently put his arm around him and drew him close to himself. Cassie stood by the door, her throat tight with grief but tears refusing to come. The humming noise caught her attention and she made her way over to the tarp covered machine.

"It doesn't work," sniffed Mikey quietly. Bloodshot eyes looked up at Cassie. "I was trying to bring them back. Mom, Dad, Lena…Tania. All of them. It doesn't work."

Cassie tugged at the tarp and it fell away to reveal a device that looked like a rocket ship.

"After…after what happened I…I shut myself away." He squeezed his brother's arm and whispered an apology. "I didn't want to go on but seeing you working so hard to keep the community going…it gave me strength…but then the headaches started and the nightmares got worse and…"

He looked at the floor quietly. Cassie slowly walked over and sat down, cross-legged, in front of him. She took his hand in hers and said softly, "And?"

"I wanted to die." Richie squeezed Mikey tighter. "I missed them so much it just wasn't right to go on. But then…a few months ago…when the League found a way to return the souls stolen from the people of Kalgoorlie and Kufstein-"

"Calgary? Canada?"

"Kalgoorlie in Australia."

"And…'Cuff-stain'?"

Mikey shook his head and Richie replied, "Kufstein in Austria."

"Oh-kay. Go on, Mikey."

He sighed and she squeezed his hand. "When they did that I thought it might be possible to bring everyone here back."

"Mikey," whispered Richie.

"I know…the ones the League saved hadn't been physically damaged, but-"

"No, Mikey. Lena didn't die the same way. Her energy wasn't taken."

Barely audible to them even though they were so close to him, they heard Mikey whisper, "I know…I just…hoped…"

Mikey looked up at Cassie, "…and then I made the medicine." Her fingers loosened around his hands slightly and she swallowed dryly.

For a few minutes a told them about his analysis and dreams and nightmares; about his hopes that the medicine would help him think straight, that he would stop seeing Lena grinning at him when she showed him her homework; about how he found Steve huddled by a dumpster mumbling in his nightmares and felt compelled to help him; about how he didn't want Richie to judge him.

After he finished the three of them sat there quietly until Richie spoke. He told them how he would look up in fear when he would hear Superman fly by but remembering Lena running around playing saying 'whoosh' would temper that fear; how helping out at the orphanage had given him some sort of solace; and how every night and every few hours of every day, he would cry.

Cassie looked at them and smiled, tears running freely down her cheeks, and she told them about Tania.

* * *

The Old Man lowered his hand and sighed. "There's a lady," he said, "a psychiatrist. Her name's Dr Claire Foster. She runs a free drop-in every Thursday at the social centre. You should go see her."

Bibbo harrumphed.

"Mr Bibbowski?"

"Well, I fig'er if he wants a fresh start I culd, y'know, give 'im a job or sumthing."

Mal looked at them, confused.

"Look, Mal, this isn't a straightforward situation. You and Steve will need to give us the names, and probably the descriptions, of the people who have been taking the drug, but you _and_ those people need help. There are people out there who are more than willing to help you, but you need to be willing to give them your time…and your trust.

"What happened was horrifying. What you've been through is unimaginable. What you're going through is terrifying, but you're not alone. Believe me when I tell you that."

Mal nodded.

"Yer need ta get rid of that nose, too."

* * *

"Sue?" whispered Jeremy as he took his daughter-in-law's hands in his. The curtains in the room were still drawn and although Sue's hair was wet after her shower, the clothes she wore were the clothes she had on when Tad had died. "Sue, we need to talk."

And Jeremy spoke. He spoke about Tad and the dreams he had shared with him when he was a boy. He spoke about their camping trips and football games, their love of hotdogs and Tad's aversion to beer. He spoke about Tads hopes and dreams of his life with Sue.

As he spoke, Amanda and Tony, Sue's parents, came in with Liana, Jeremy's wife. The listened to Jeremy quietly as he spoke to Sue, and when he finished Tony sat by his daughter, wrapped his arm around her and held her hand, and he then spoke.

* * *

For the past few weeks, Dr Claire Foster has been having extraordinarily busy Thursdays. As exhausted as she has been, though, seeing the change in her new clients has been a reward in itself.

For the past year or so, Suicide Slum has been different. Although children have been playing and people have been working and living, there has been an odd air. Recently, things have shifted, and the shift seems to be for the better.

Finally, Richie unveiled what he had been working on. It was a sculpture of a tear drop, engraved with the names of every person who had died in Brainiac's attack on Suicide Slum – the names were 'written' the way each man, woman, and child had written their name. The sculpture was placed at in courtyard where Superman had crashed to the ground after blocking the silent death in the sky.


	5. Intergang knocking

"Dude, c'mon, it's a good gig," said David. He, Andy, Rupert and Trey were sitting near the front of the bar, by the large window. David had his back to the wall and was able to look out over most of the Ace o' Clubs' bar area; the others had their backs to the bar area and were not comfortable about that.

"How's it 'a good gig', Dave?" asked Andy as he played with his beer. "Tony was killed a week after he joined them."

"Tony messed up. Look, these guys look out for you, and if you work right they give you opportunities."

"Like?" asked Trey.

"Like _international_ opportunities. They have networks in the Far East and the Middle East and down in South America and over in Africa. The world's your oyster, my man."

"But you're still here," said Rupert quietly.

David smiled and leaned back a little. "I'm just doing some recruiting. A few weeks from now I'll be over in Kuwait as part of a security detail. Ten grand a week and I'll be set for life."

"That's more than private military rates!" exclaimed Rupert, his eyes wide.

David winked. "I know. I figure a couple of years of that and I can buy my own place and retire."

"But how much would we be on?" asked Andy, sliding his chair closer to the table.

"Starting rate is a grand a week, but it depends on the job."

"Shit! That's like four times more than my last gig."

"Yeah, well, don't forget what happened to Gonz," interjected Trey. "Guy lost his hand."

Dave waved dismissively. "He got a new one. And a new eye." The others shuddered. "Okay, look, there's a job I need a few people for tomorrow night. Five hundred apiece. You lot in?"

* * *

Soon after Superman began his activities in Metropolis it became apparent that the infrastructure of Metropolis' gangland was considerably more coordinated than had previously been understood. When the capture, arrest and imprisonment of several high-ranking ganglords didn't result in the expected power vacuum, Inspector Henderson and a number of others members of the Metropolis police department were very worried. When Clark Kent presented his findings to them before submitting his story to his editor, Henderson found a lot of respect for the young reporter. Sure, he had been brash when he first came to the reporting scene, but by giving him and his colleagues a heads up on this 'Intergang' they had been able to coordinate an opening salvo which collectively wiped out over two dozen of Intergang's numerous operations.

In the grand scheme of things, it was not enough; however, the discovery of a secondary 'uber-gang' operating behind the scenes provided Henderson and the others with the necessary leverage to get the funding to do something about it. Within a year after Superman's debut the Special Crimes Unit was set up – if the gangs were going increase their firepower and dangerlevel to the ordinary citizens of Metropolis then the police would step up to protect and serve in kind. Currently, apart from Superman, the three main people on 'Intergang's' hitlist are: (recently promoted) Commissioner Henderson, Dan 'Terrible' Turpin, and Maggie Sawyer.

Metropolis. The City of Tomorrow.

The Sci-Tech Criminal Capital of the World.

Superman's home.

* * *

"'Elevation', I think that's what they're calling it," said a bronzed and leathery looking man. Although only in his late thirties, his time at sea over almost two decades had taken its toll. His drinking buddy looked at him quizzically. "See, Superman arrives and nothing hurts him so some big-heads see that as an opportunity to show the big _wigs_ things, weapons and stuff, that otherwise would never see the light of day."

"Oh, '_escalation_'. I get you."

"Yeah, that. Like, take that collider-thingie over in Europe. Sure, they're saying it's to uncover secrets of the universe and stuff, but _really_ it's a gravity prison for Superman if he decides to take over the world."

"Gravity prison?"

"Yup."

"How's that supposed to work?"

"I don't know! I'm not the big head…"

* * *

"Okay, now don't laugh at the size of this gun. _Believe_ me when I tell you it packs a wallop. You seen that Will Smith alien movie, right?"

"_Independence Day_?" asked Rupert.

"No, the other one."

"Oh, yeah, sure. This like that?"

David smiled. "We already know we got aliens among us. This little baby makes it easier to take 'em down. Point and shoot."

"Awesome," breathed Trey as he cradled the gun in the palm of his hand.

"Just make sure you keep the safety on when it's in your pocket. I mean it."

Trey began to skip around a little, grinning. "It's like my old water pistol. Pew, pew, pew."

There was a shuffling sound from the end of the alley as the Old Man stepped out of the shadows. Trey pulled the trigger.

* * *

The safe-house (or perhaps 'safe apartment' would be more apt) was a new one and the hair salon below it was one of the numerous businesses set up to launder various funds. Most of the internal walls had been knocked down in order to create more space but from outside it looked quite nondescript. David paced around the room, muttering to himself, and the others sat quietly at the large metal dining table. There was a shimmer by the large tinted window in the centre of the wall and several figures materialised in the room. One of the figures had a red stripe on its otherwise black clothing and it shook its head as it stepped forward.

David blanched.

"That one looks like he's gonna hurl," said Trey as he pointed at one of the other figures.

David grabbed Trey and slammed him against the wall. "I've had enough of your shit!" he snarled before he threw him to the floor. "You owe me!" His face was red and he was breathing heavy, his eyes wide with panic.

Rupert and Andy stood quietly by the table, avoiding looking at anyone. On either side of them stood the other figures that had materialised, dressed in black and wearing hoods. Their goggles gave them an eerie bug-like look. Trey picked himself up and muttered some apologies and reassurances.

The red striped figure placed a hand on David's shoulder. They were silent for a few moments before David nodded and allowed himself a small smile. "This is an in-and-out job at Kord," he said, turning to the others. "No one gets hurt. No one knows we're there. One will be lookout, the rest of us will be on extraction. The gear's going to be provided and at fifteen-"

The others looked at him as he stood there with his mouth wide open.

"Foolish kids," grumbled a gruff voice. The three turned to see a smoky shadowy figure shuffle away through shut door, and the black-clothed figures quickly dematerialised.

* * *

David, Rupert, Andy and Trey were back in the Ace o' Clubs, at the same table. The four of them looked scared. As they sat there, each of them on their third drink, a large shadow came over the table and they began to choke on a rancid smell. With their eyes watering, they looked up to see Old Gray-Eye staring at them. He stood there for a few minutes before shuffling away.

No one else in the bar seemed to have noticed him.

"This can't be happening," whispered David.

* * *

The four of them were back in the alley. After Trey had fired the little gun they had all run away as fast as they could. David had taken them to the safe-house and had told them that he had once seen the gun blow up a car, and he was convinced that there was no way the Old Man could still be alive. The ground was scorched and the asphalt was cracked. The nearby dumpster was deformed and part of it was melted.

"Maybe…maybe Superman saved him," said Trey, nervously.

"Then why didn't he capture us?" hissed David.

"'I always try to see the best in people,'" said a deep baritone voice. David jumped back, looking around in fear. "Sorry," said Rupert. "That was me."

"Christ in a truck, you scared the shit out of me!"

* * *

'Gonz' wasn't his real name. Most people had no idea what his real name was and, for a while after the accident, Gonz didn't know, either. These days he's still not sure if 'Stuart Lumley' is really his name, but Alistair Bendel-White had told him it was and he seemed like someone who would know. Gonz had been a member of a gang called 'the Runners' – renown for their parkour abilities (although, back then, it didn't have any such name) – and Gonz had been the best of the best. They had ruled the rooftops of Metropolis…until Superman showed up.

All these years later and Gonz still bristled at the memory. Superman had been rounding up gang members from _every_ gang in Metropolis. It didn't matter if they were embedded mafia or the imported Russians or the kids looking to make a name for themselves – every one was up for grabs. That _hateful_ night when the Runners had completed a three-pronged raid on the Aver, Billington and Tayheera diamond companies, Gonz had been almost home free. In the pouches he had more than a hundred million in diamonds and he would have been set for life once he was paid his cut.

'Set for life' as he somersaulted between two rooftops.

'Set for life' as something grabbed his ankle mid-somersault and he wrenched his knee because of his momentum. 'Set for life' as that freak tossed him on to the ground and told him to wait there.

When Alistair Bendel-White came to see him as he sat in that overcrowded jail; when he told Gonz that if he left the Runners behind and came to work for his bosses; when he showed him a photograph of Superman screaming in pain…Gonz knew 'Intergang' was for him.

Gonz looked at his scarred and deformed body. His good eye traced the deformities. Most of his memories were gone but he believed Alistair when he told him that this was all Superman's doing – that Superman had blown something up in front of Gonz, destroying Gonz's hand and eye, and then pretended he had been trying to help him.

The heads-up display in his artificial eye flashed a message – Gonz was needed in the Slum.

* * *

The large mean-looking man had been coming to the Ace o' Clubs every day for the past two weeks. Some had figured, based on the scars on his arms, that the man was either a 'retired' sailor or had seen action. A couple of people pegged him to be a merc. A couple of others pegged him to be a cop. Regardless, people tended to stop speaking, or changed their conversations, whenever he was nearby.

It annoyed him. He hated undercover work. It was necessary, though, as all indictors were that something big was going to happen. Soon.

Scanning the tables, the scared group of men and 'Cocky' Dave had caught his attention. He frowned as he lip-read: '…job's still on. There'll be a super to meet as at cord and if we don't show they'll send wallcrawlers after us.'

The large man's eyes widened. 'Wallcrawlers' meant Intergang. A wave of anxious excitement washed over him – Intergang was making its moving, as he knew it would, but what was 'cord'? A sudden realisation came to him: 'cord' was '_Kord_', as in 'Kord Industries'…

* * *

Kord Industries had been developing a new form of anti-gravitational device. Although the details were still under wraps, the rumours were that it used solar energy, was the size of an average man's palm, and that six of them could be used in unison to move a loaded shipping container. There was also a darker rumour with regards to what might happen if the device's field were to be inverted…

The large mean-looking man wasn't too keen on the new inner-ear communication buds – he certainly admired their efficiency and ease of use, he just felt that it made the user look like they were talking to themselves. Part of him had a nostalgic longing for the old _Dick Tracy_ style watches. The visual enhancement contact lenses gave him headaches but, over the past couple of years, they had saved him on more occasions than he would care to admit to. He still didn't like their price tag, though.

"Kids are en route, sir," said a female voice over the bud. The man began to make his way across the court yard and over to the series of benches and tables set out in front of the new Kord building. As he sat down a shimmer to his right caught his attention. Without the lenses the shimmer would be invisible to him; with them, though, he saw the shimmer break into four smaller shimmers – one remained outside the building while the other three entered.

"It's on," he whispered.

* * *

Gonz landed in the level four rooftop garden – the designated extraction point – and looked down into the courtyard. His enhanced eye could see the shimmers of the cloaked task-force and he frowned as he watched three of them enter the building. His eye needed an upgrade. He set his wrist timer to fifteen minutes and watched the first lookout.

* * *

Trey's heart was racing, and the fact that he couldn't see his hands or any other part of himself wasn't helping. His breathing was ragged and he kept telling himself it was because the suit was too tight but he knew it was because he had killed someone. He didn't know the safety had been off – what idiot hands someone a gun like that, heck _any_ gun, with the safety off?

"I've got no choice now," he whispered to himself, "I have to work with them."

"There's always a choice, son," said a gruff voice from behind him. Trey yelled with fear, the sound echoing across the otherwise silent courtyard. The mean-looking man started with surprise – Old Gray-Eye had appeared out of nowhere.

"There's always a choice," repeated the Old Man. "I know things have been rough for you these past few months. Getting laid off just as you were beginning to stand on your own two feet certainly wasn't part of your plan. I know that, Trey, but getting mixed up in this kind of thing….really?"

"I was so…frustrated…sir." It took all the self-control he could muster for Trey to not soil himself and to not scream when the Old Man put his hand on his shoulder.

"I know, but there's still time to make things right. Superman saved me that time, he might not be around next time something like that happens. Take off the mask, go to that food truck over there, and hand yourself in. I'm sure Superman will put in a good word for you."

"He will? Why?"

"He always tries to see the best in people."

* * *

Gonz watched the scene carefully. He had no idea where the Old Man had come from – one moment the lookout was alone and the next the Old Man had been standing behind him. He hated magic and teleportation but his enhanced eye didn't pick up any of the usual energies. As he saw the lookout start to walk away, Gonz aimed with his weaponised hand and then clenched the fist. There was a low hum and then nothing. Confused, Gonz checked his wrist controls. The diagnostic said everything was fine. He aimed again and, again, there was a low hum and then nothing. Gonz chided himself for not bringing a long range attachment for his hand as a back-up – the sonic disrupter he had prepped for later only worked at close range. Cursing under his breath, he keyed in the code for David's communicator and all he heard was static.

"Kord, you sneaky bastard," he swore out loud.

* * *

The lifts in the Kord building were inactive at this time of the night, however the building was designed to accommodate wheelchair across to all levels without having to use any of the lifts.

"It's weird that there aren't any stairs," whispered Andy as they began to make their way to the third floor. David turned and handed him two small devices. Andy looked at the large security door ahead of them and swallowed drily. His job was 'easy' – use the devices to bypass security and retrieve the physical and digital blueprints for the device.

"You've got twenty minutes," said David, as he and Rupert began to make their way to the tenth floor. "Roof top garden on level four."

* * *

Trey took off the mask and goggles and began walking to the food truck – to the casual observer, a disembodied headed was making its way across the courtyard. He turned to look at Old Gray-Eye but he had disappeared. He looked over at the large man on the park bench and saw him nod at him. Strangely reassured, Trey turned and began walking again.

"Let him through. Kid's clean but we need to have a few words with him," said the large man softly.

* * *

"You do realise that if this all goes wrong you'll pretty much be on your own, don't you, Andy?"

Andy's hand froze over the control panel to the door. A green LED blinked, encouraging him to push the button below it.

"You're a talented kid. Artistic. There are other options available to you if you look a little harder."

"How do you-"

"I know a lot of things, Andy, but the important thing right now is that you and I both know that you shouldn't be doing this of all things."

* * *

Rupert was nervous – David hadn't said a word since they left Andy on the third floor. Sure, no alarms had gone off but they only had ten minutes left to get through the seventh security door and into the 'vault' and they were a minute and a half behind schedule.

"We're in. Move."

The door opened and at the far end of the room were several containers with various markings on them and the Kord corporate logo. David held out a scanning device and indicated at the furthest container. Rupert hurried over, applied the small device he had been given earlier, and the container bleeped and opened. Inside were two dozen palm-sized devices, circular in shape and with six 'legs' extending out. They opened their satchels and quickly placed the devices in them.

"C'mon, we're late," rasped David as he hurried through door.

There was a beep and red lights began to flash as doors four through to one began to close. Panicking, Rupert began to ran faster, only to stumble, shocked, as David suddenly rocketed through the corridor and out into the main building. Door three hissed shut in front of Rupert as door four hissed shut behind him. Shaking with fear and desperately trying to breathe, Rupert slumped to the floor. An invisible gas hissed and he quickly lost consciousness.

* * *

"Silent alarm's gone off, sir." The large man looked up and squinted. "Sir? Shall we move in?"

"No, not yet. Two of the kids have already come out. Let's see if number three can do it, too."

"Sir, Kord's interference field is coming down on the tenth floor. We have a heat signature but it's not moving. A heat trail is dissipating."

"Okay. Move in and eyes peeled. They're wearing warp suits so set your weapons to tase and concussive stun."

A silent group of armed men and women descended on the Kord building as the large man made his way to the main entrance.

* * *

Gonz tried to suppress his frustration as his heads up display kept flashing red at him. He had two officers coming at him on their hover apparatus and figured at least another two would be zipping over above him. He had trained for this but he never liked putting this training into action – to do so meant the mission was a failure. Through the garden doors he could see the shimmer of David flying towards him.

"Three…two…one…" David suddenly dropped mid-flight, knocking in to a table and sliding across the floor. Fast. His momentum carried him through the plate glass and Gonz winced a little as he saw the cuts open up on David's arms. Gonz quickly stepped over, cut the satchel free and pointed his open mechanised palm at David's head.

Gonz slammed in to the balcony wall, his vision blurred slightly and the sight of Rupert's head hovering by the far wall caught him by surprise. He shook his head quickly and started as he saw a large dishevelled man checking over David's unconscious and bleeding body, the satchel lying by his feet.

"Who the f-" Gonz caught his breath as he found himself face-to-face with Cross. He hadn't seen the man for years, not since he had been assigned elsewhere by Intergang, but he remembered…

"Gonz…I warned you, all those years ago, that this path you were on would do you no good." There was anger and sadness in the Cross' one good eye. The display in his enhanced eye informed Gonz that two officers were hovering behind him, and as Cross stepped back and held up the teleporter he had removed from Gonz' belt, Gonz knew it was almost over.

Almost.

He spun and fired his sonic disrupter at the officers as he leapt off the balcony and grabbed on to the harness of one of them. As he and the officer twisted in midair, they dropped forty feet as the officer's anti-gravity device compensated for the increased weight. Gonz then let go and dropped down to the ground, rolling out the impact and began to run across the courtyard.

There was a flash of light and a fizzing sound, and Gonz flew through the air and crashed into a table. The airborne officers alighted beside Gonz's unconscious body and gave the large man a thumbs up.

"Nice shooting, Dan," said Cross as he patted the large man on the back. Startled, Dan Turpin turned and found himself standing in front of the Kord building alone.

"I have no idea how Gordon puts up with that kind of thing," he muttered to himself.


	6. Traffic

Bibbo didn't reach for the baseball bat. All the regulars were in shock at what they were seeing, and none were able to move.

Clark Kent had stormed into the bar in a rage.

Clark Kent had grabbed two people by the throat and slammed them against the wall.

The usually rowdy bar was silent as the patrons watched the two men struggle against the reporter's grip. They clawed at his hands and tried to kick him as their faces began to change colour.

"Clark! NO!" shouted Lois as she ran through the still open door. She rushed up to Clark and began pulling on his arm. The two men began to make choking noises. "Clark, please. Let them go. This isn't you."

The look on Clark's face was something Lois never expected to see – the grimace, the clenched teeth, the seething anger…and the tears in the corner of his eye.

The cuts marking his face were something she hadn't seen in a long time. When Clark first got stuck in to investigative journalism in Metropolis he had stirred up the attentions of a lot of people. Back then, Lois had been so angry at him for doing so. She had spent two years cultivating contacts and insiders and Clark had come barrelling in and had pretty much ruined everything. Lois had been wholly aware that there were various 'webs' of crime in Metropolis, with some of those webs overlapping and interlinking with each other, but Clark didn't care.

Clark Kent, the crusading reporting for the Daily Star.

Clark Kent, the most hated blogger of Metropolis. Of course, the fact that it was certain members of the police force, the justice department and a number of civil servants who extolled their hate wasn't missed by a number of Metropolis' citizens.

"Clark?"

"They killed them, Lois," he said through grit teeth. The men's eyes were bulging and they were choking and rasping. Clark's forearms were bleeding.

"Clark. Please?"

He closed his eyes and Lois saw a tear slowly roll down his right cheek. He stepped back and loosened his grip. The two men fell to their knees gasping for air, swearing at the tall reporter as he turned his back on them.

The crowd looked at Lois questioningly.

"There was an explosion," she said quietly. "People died. These men-"

"Ain't got nufin' to do with it," rasped one of the men. "You can't prove _nufin_'."

"I'm going to have to ask you to leave," rumbled Bibbo.

"C'mon, Clark."

"No, Miss Lane, not you two. Them."

The two men helped each other up and one of them rasped, "This is a dump, anyway."

The crowd eyed them warily but let them leave. Quietly they picked up the tables and chairs Clark had barrelled through and rearranged the room. Clark stood looking down at the floor, his fists tightly clenched and blood running down his forearms.

"Let's get that seen to, Mr Kent," said Bibbo quietly as he gently led Clark to the crib room. "Nothing else going on here, folks. Show's over," he said over his shoulder.

* * *

Lois stood at one end of the room, talking on the phone to Perry. Clark leant against the desk as Bibbo tended to his forearms with antiseptic from the medi-kit.

"You should get your ribs checked out, Mr Kent, those guys were kicking you pretty hard."

"They'll heal," said Clark softly.

"Perry, there were at least 76 people in that building, not including the officers who had just gone in. We need to know what happened. Superman had given it the all-clear an hour before the raid. I know, hopefully we'll hear from him soon. Clark's with me now. The explosion knocked him out for a little while and he's refusing to go to the hospital to get checked up. An 'order'? C'mon, Perry, you think he'll go with that?"

"Um…Mr Kent…your back seems to be bleeding, too." Clark looked at Bibbo, confused.

"Just take the shirt off, Clark," said Lois as she hung up the phone. "If you're refusing to go to the hospital at least let us patch you up. Don't be embarrassed about your Superman undershirt, lots of guys have them these days."

Seeing that it was pointless to argue with them, Clark stood up and unbuttoned his shirt. He winced as he began to take it off and Bibbo stepped up to help him. He was wearing a white undershirt and the back of it was red with blood. Several pieces of shrapnel poked through.

"Adrenalin," said Bibbo. "Sometimes ya just don't know yer hurt. I really think you oughta go to the hospital, though, Mr Kent."

Clark shook his head. "Another time, perhaps, Bibbo. For now, see what you can do to remove them. Lois and I have work to do."

Clark looked at Lois and saw she was a little pale. "When you shielded me?" she whispered. Clark smiled through the pain.

* * *

"You know, Mr Kent, you really ought not ta slouch so much, makes you look fatter than you are. Good posture's important."

Clark smiled, "I'll keep that in mind, Bibbo." He said as he patted the tape Bibbo had wrapped around his ribs.

"Clark, why did you say 'something's wrong' just before the explosion?" asked Lois as Bibbo helped him into a fresh shirt.

"I did?"

"You said 'something's wrong' and then jumped over the barricade. Why?"

"I…I heard something. It didn't make sense."

"What?"

"I'm not sure. Not yet." Clark checked his phone and frowned. "We should get to the office and see what information's been released so far. Maybe we can piece together what happened after Superman did his check. Thanks for your help, Bibbo, and I'm sorry about the ruckus."

Bibbo shook his head dismissively, "If those men had a part in the deaths of anyone..." he pounded his fist into his palm, and Clark nodded in understanding.

* * *

As the elevator doors opened Lois shouted out, "Jimmy! Have any reports from the explosion come in yet?"

"Nothing so far, Lois. Everyone's clammed up. All we know so far is that at least 100 people were killed, and Superman's missing."

"Missing?"

"No one's seen or heard from him since just before the explosion. He gave the 'all clear' and was in Europe and then North Africa, but after that there's nothing."

"Okay," she said as she turned to Clark. "I'll track Superman, you focus on finding out what happened at the docks and how a bomb got in there."

Everyone's phone pinged – it was a brief, terse, press release:

_Preliminary investigations confirm that the explosion at the docks earlier today was caused by a large bomb. Investigation is underway regarding the possibility of the bomb containing radioactive material. Quarantine is to be put in place._

Clark slumped to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

The silent machine reviewed emergency calls in Metropolis and rarely ever did more than that. Today, however, it pinged.

_'…Clark Kent has collapsed. He's bleeding heavily.'_

_'I have the Daily Planet building as your location, please confirm.'_

_'Yes, we're on the 44__th__ floor.'_

The machine pinged again.

* * *

The destroyed building had changed hands several times over the past decade but as Lois dug deeper it became clear that the two main groups that had ties to it had been LexCorp and Intergang. In fact, the whole area was basically the battleground of a corporate war conducted through real estate. The registered owners were never either of those two, of course, as Lois peeled away at the corporate umbrellas, holding companies, subsidiaries and so on, but those two hands could be recognised. By her, or Clark, or Perry, or a competent lawyer, but not enough for the police, and certainly not enough to convince a jury. There was never enough for them or the courts. It was never 'beyond reasonable doubt'.

It was times like this that Lois had some jealousy of Clark's ability to get people to open up to him. He made it look so easy, and there was a time, early on, when Lois suspected that maybe he had some form of hypnotic approach. After working with him, though, she realised it was because he was 'just Clark' and, as annoying as it was for a reporter like her, it was just the way he is.

They had been working on this case, this story, for a few months and both had expressed frustration at the Organized Crime Unit's refusal to allow Superman to be involved. Granted, they understood the need to determine the various chains and entry points, but people's lives were at stake…and Superman could save them. Easily.

_'But that's just it,'_ Clark had said, _'you and I both know that Superman can't be everywhere at once. Until we know the extent of this organisation he could be putting other lives at risk.'_

Together, they had uncovered and helped foil three transports in as many months but this had been the first major one in Metropolis. After she had infiltrated and exposed a slave trade ring, Lois had partnered up with Clark in order to uncover the people behind the people. Clark had a wealth of experience in this area of investigation, in his time travelling the globe, before joining the _Daily Planet_, he had exposed more than a dozen such organizations. Lois now understood the bags of 'fan mail' he received a couple of times a year – they were from those he had helped find freedom a long time ago.

Lois looked up as Jimmy walked by. He shook his head sadly. Superman hadn't been seen anywhere on the planet for the past four hours, and now Clark was in the hospital and in surgery. She spotted Perry pacing frantically in his office, his face ashen. She frowned as she tried to lip-read:

_'What do you mean there's no record of an EMT taking Clark...?'_

Lois gasped.

* * *

Although the Ace o' Clubs was 'the' hangout place for the lower denizens of Metropolis, there were a couple of others places which catered to 'the lowest of the low'. One of them was a place with an otherwise unassuming name: 'The Untied Shoe'. Originally a speakeasy, it maintained its ties to the Metropolis underworld throughout its existence and was one of a select few places which were considered 'neutral ground'.

The Old Man tended to avoid coming here, favouring the less confrontational atmosphere of the Ace o' Clubs, but he was known and was 'permitted'. The rumour was that he had saved the lives of several 'higher-ups', some said that it included members of the family that run the joint, and that he had 'a free pass'. There was another rumour that he was the devil made flesh and visited when he wanted to take a look at the work of his underlings.

The door opened as he approached, the watchers in the area had already alerted the doorman and other staff that he was on his way. The Old Man shuffled inside, slower than usual, and nodded a greeting. He allowed himself to be escorted to his favourite table and was presented with a cold glass of milk.

* * *

When they had started working on the case, before presenting it to Perry and getting the go-ahead to progress it, Clark had quickly come to the conclusion that there was a splinter group at work within the overall organisation. Lois wasn't so sure, there wasn't much of anything within the data they had that would distinguish the kind of 'splinter group' Clark was alluding to from the four or five main 'cells', but she knew Clark had a nose for minutiae.

For the past fifteen minutes Lois found herself struggling to calm down. Clark had been hurt in the explosion, his body riddled with shrapnel _that he had ignored_, he had collapsed right next to her, and he was missing and Perry wasn't coming out of his office... She exhaled loudly, stood up, grabbed a box of files on Clark's desk and headed to a reading room.

_'I used to read your work whenever I could. Sometimes I had to rely on translations and that meant some of the passion was lost, but I knew it was your work even if the by-line wasn't there. Don't think I'm putting you on a pedestal, Lois – I mean, the way you piece things, seemingly disparate things, together, is great to read and, frankly, amusing and amazing to watch and experience – but sometimes…sometimes I think you need to take a moment to sift through the dirt again. Maybe it's the small town in me, or maybe I just enjoy taking in as much as I can, but I've often found that taking a step back can literally change how you see things.'_

'Splinter group…splinter group…' muttered Lois as she sorted through the files. Servitude, sex industry, forced labour, marriage, and organs – they were the main 'groups'. What kind of 'splinter group' had Clark been thinking of? What made him come to such a conclusion in the first place?

* * *

The Old Man was angry and frustrated – for two hours he had been in 'The Untied Shoe', lip-reading, filtering conversations, watching body language, yet no one present had had anything to do with the explosion…with the deaths.

Three men entered, two headed to an empty table while the third made his way to an occupied table near the middle of the room. He was tall but slight in build. His head was shaven, as were his eyebrows, and he had dark circles under his eyes. The Old Man recognised him as 'Revenant', a man who had no direct affiliation with any of the Metropolis networks and who preferred being a 'go-between'. He whispered something to one of the attendants and the old man leaned forward, frowning, as he watched the attendant convey the message to 'Baron Nemo Slop'.

_'The meta children are lost.'_

Slop's face reddened and, after a few moments, he excused himself from the table. The attendant helped him with the chair and placed the overcoat over Slop's shoulders.

The Old Man breathed sharply through his nose as the aches throbbing across his back sharpened. He turned his attention back to the other two men and glared. They were the two Clark Kent had pinned to a wall earlier.

The Old Man got up and followed as they left. None of the others were of interested to him, Revenant was the one who had the answers he wanted.

* * *

The folder tucked away under three thick folders only contained half a dozen pages – extracts from two articles published in what seemed to be an obscure research journal, and a handwritten list of research companies. Lois keyed the abbreviated journal name into a search engine – it was a genetics journal but didn't seem to have the standing of the other journals on the results page.

'Why genetics, Clark? What did you spot?'

She looked out over the press room and over at Perry's office, and felt her chest lighten as she saw him smile at whatever he was hearing at the other end of the phone call. Her attentions no longer divided, she began to look through Clark's notes again.

* * *

_'Man has always wanted to be more. Whether it be the invulnerability of Achilles, the strength of Hercules, or the flight of Icarus; whether it be the ability to calm a storm or part a river; whether it be the ability to be wherever you wanted to be or even be invisible, man has always wanted more.'_

'This is supposed to be an article on genetics?' thought Lois to herself. 'Oh, here we go:'

_'DNA methylation is an established biochemical process, however the incorporation of meta-material in a permanent and unidirectional manner in either embryonic stem cells or an established entity has been problematic. To date, non-meta-material has been readily received by embryonic stem cells, allowing the formation of specific tissues, for example, but the addition of meta-material without having to rely on suppressive stabilisers or accelerated growth techniques has meant that advanced establishment and future seeding is, at the moment, unlikely. Grafting meta-material into established entities has primarily required immuno-suppressors, the undesired effect being that the entities' longevity is dramatically and unalterably reduced. Developments in carcinogenesis and genomic imprinting, using pre-adolescent genetic material, has resulted in the possibility to piggyback on to gene promoter CpG islands which have acquired abnormal hypermethylation.'_

'Oh my God, this is a sales pitch!'

Lois turned to the other article, a 'research piece' on the increased presence of the 'meta-gene' across the world in the past five years, listing the areas of highest concentration and the abilities which have been recorded.

* * *

The trafficking of humans is widely believed to affect almost every country in the world, and it is something Clark Kent has tried to tackle in various ways over the years. Overall, his success has varied but this has never dissuaded him, and it never will. Lois was now piecing together the other aspect of Clark's investigation, the 'splinter group' as he had called it.

The trafficking of meta-children to be sold on to research labs, and other organisations…

* * *

Slop lay on the floor unconscious. Around him were the unconscious bodies of his three bodyguards, his attendant and two men who had deep bruising around their necks. As he twisted Revenant's arm a little more, Cross surveyed the scene and shook his head. He knew Bruce would have chided him on being 'sloppy'.

'Explain,' he growled, as bits of gravel cut into Revenant's face and went into his mouth. He eased the pressure on his arm and back slightly and Revenant raised his head and spat out the gravel.

'Figure it out for yourself,' he said through grit teeth.

'Where did the Kryptonite come from?'

Revenant chuckled through the pain. 'Probably Iraq or Iran. I forget which.' He yelped involuntarily as Cross let go of his arm and began to walk away. Revenant got to his knees, tending his throbbing shoulder, and shouting out at the old man.

'HEY!'

Cross turned, his eyes flashing red, and Revenant slumped down and quietly whispered 'Mastema'. Blue lights flashed on a far wall.

* * *

Lois found Clark standing at the edge of the cordoned area. His tie flapped around as the wind picked up. He stared into the dark rubble, his jaw clenching and unclenching.

'I went to Wayne Labs and found you'd discharged yourself. Jimmy said you'd be here,' said Lois and she pulled her hair back a little.

Clark nodded. 'Superman didn't know they had access to Kryptonite. An oversight, and no excuse for him failing-'

'Failing?' interjected Lois.

'77 men, women and children, not including the officers and bystanders-'

'77? But the manifests we found said 76 in total.'

'There was one more. Kept in reserve in case something like the raid was to happen.'

'So there wasn't a leak in the department?'

'No. Revenant made a call as the teams got into place.' Clark nudged at some of the rubble with his shoe, uncovering a piece of gold in the dirt, before turning to look at Lois. 'You've seen my research?' She nodded. 'In the Middle East there's been an increase in meta-children with an ability they call 'Tay al-Ard'.'

'I don't remember reading that.'

'It's basically teleportation. 'Traversing the Earth without moving'.'

'They got a _kid_ to teleport in with a Kryptonite bomb?!'

Clark nodded. 'For the most part, the children have strong familial bonds which means they can always teleport back to their families no matter where they are. Lois, these kids want nothing more than to be free with their families, to teleport away with everyone and be happy. So far, though, I don't think any of them has had the ability to teleport a living organism along with themselves.'

'So when you said you heard something..?'

'The unit had placed receivers around the building,' he held out a small ear-piece, 'one of the techs had given me this so that I could listen in. There was a…a popping and electrical discharge sound and then a child's voice saying 'Mom, I found you'.'

* * *

_It's a story we have heard before, and many now choose to dismiss it. Others, however, realise that it could have been them if circumstances had been different. The 'American Dream' – __everybody's__ dream – is to have a good life. A better life. It is a dream shared by every single person who died in the dockyard explosion last night – from the seven members of the Metropolis SCU and two members of the fire department, to the 77 men, women and children who had been abducted and smuggled to Metropolis, and it is a dream shared by all who were there and survived._

_It's a dream that others try to exploit._


End file.
